"They don't want to be cured, you know," Irgzid replies to Daerith as the poultice is being harvested. "They view this disease as a holy sending from Laogzed, the poor deluded fools. Though they do use the poultice to stave off the worst of the disease. Apparently dying of the disease is a bit much of a devotion for them." He looks disappointed, as much as you can tell moods on a troglodyte.
"Leaving some of the poultice will help in the short term. A few will live a bit longer. But it's no long-term solution. Now that the other priests are dead, there's no one left who can brew the Poultice. It was Largzil and Trizkan that were the experts. And I saw the two of them die at your hands. And without the poultice, Laogzed's Embrace is fatal."
When Daerith approaches the Olman and speaks to him, it's clear that the man understands language, at least a little bit. He comes when he's called, and he responds to very basic questions or commands, much like a domesticated dog would. But he has no language and seems to have the intelligence you'd expect from a smart animal.
The next hour is a bit tiring, what with scooping out the poultice and getting it into the containers that the troglodytes had ready for it. But with Grask's spell up, it's tolerable. Soon the group has eighteen jars of the black pulp poultice. The real question is what to do with their haul, as well as the simple-headed Olman.
